


Repentance

by mysconesaredelicious



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fire, Grief/Mourning, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Multi, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysconesaredelicious/pseuds/mysconesaredelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France and England have both experienced loss and pain, but it is only after tragedies occur that England truly understands the loss and pain of others, specifically France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repentance

The day was mild. Arthur leaned against the front porch of his house, looking out over the village. It was a small town, as he was taking a month-long trip away from the capital. Recent events regarding the Scottish and his tendency to insult rather than be diplomatic had led to the Queen forcing him to take a vacation. He had been in a mood about it all week, especially because she had talked to him (in his mind) like he was mentally a young teen, rather than just physically. So what if his voice was only now starting to crack and he was still skinny? He was England, centuries old, and no woman should be telling him what to do. She wasn’t his _mother_.

But it had been a week, and it was hard to hold a grudge for a week or more. By now, his thoughts were bitter only out of sheer spite. Why did he have to come to such a small place, anyway? This town was stagnant. The same thing happened day after day, and he was stuck here while she played ruler, a role unbefitting of her inferior self. It just made him so _frustrated_. He had to complain to someone or he’d go nuts. Fortunately, he had already written a letter to France to come over, so he could whine to him as soon as he arrived. It should be today.

Arthur found himself drumming his fingers on the wood anxiously as he looked out. France would be coming today… The thought both excited him and annoyed him. They were, for once, not fighting, mostly because France was busy fighting internally. The chance to get together and mutually complain was one he was glad to have, but there was something more… He couldn’t put his finger on it, and that was what annoyed him. What was it? Why did he even ask _France_ of all people? More than half of the time he hated that bastard’s guts. But hatred was not the feeling he got now, when he thought France’s name. It was something foreign to him, something his developing body had yet to understand and experience in full. It wasn’t like he would be _enjoying_ France’s company! That would be absurd. It was just complaining together.

Within the hour, a carriage arrived on the edge of town. Arthur recognized it immediately, and his heart thumped painfully when he caught his first glimpse of France. But he kept an air of mild annoyance and indifference about him, not wanting to reveal this strange change. France stepped out of his carriage like a king. Physically around 17 or 18, he could pass for a king, he had the attitude for it. Although, hardly noticeable was the bags under his eyes and a few bruises, here and there. Mostly likely from skirmishes about whatever they were fighting about. Religion, right? It was something religious. Arthur patted the chair beside him, nodding in greeting.

“Took you long enough to get out here. How was the trip?”

“Dreadfully boring.”

France took the seat he was offered, surveying the town as he did so.

“Small place. Your boss sent you here specifically?”

“She did.” Arthur scowled again, thinking about it, and launched into the beginnings of his complaining. “All because I personally started a skirmish with Scotland! So what if I did? The jerk was being annoying. I can fight with my siblings all I want. Leave it to a woman to think a little brawl like that is a disaster. I’ve been sent here as a time-out, like I’m a child!”

“You are a child, England.”

“Who asked you?”

He refrained from starting a full-blown argument over it, because he still had complaining to do.

“I can’t believe a _woman_ is my ruler in the first place! It didn’t work well when it was Mary, and it won’t work well with her either!”

“Ouais…”

“Hey, France, you know, you look really tired.”

He said that without really meaning to, a frown coming onto his face. He had intended to go on complaining for a while, but he couldn’t help but notice France stifling yawns and half-lidding his eyes while he listened.

“It has been a long trip,” was the answer he was given, although he was certain it had more to do with the internal squabbling than a simple carriage ride.

“Well! I, being the British gentleman I am, prepared a place for you,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Come, I’ll take you to it.”

“You, a gentleman? Hah.”

But France stood as well, and they returned to France’s carriage. Arthur poked his head out and gave directions to the coachman, leading him to a rather large house outside of the town a little. It once belonged to a lord, but he had abandoned it in favor of moving closer to the monarchy, and hadn’t cared enough to sell it, so it remained vacant. Arthur had had it cleaned up a little, and sent servants there to keep it tidy and stocked with enough food for a week or so. He stepped off the carriage with France, and pressed his lips together as he debated what to say next. After a moment, he formed words.

“Well, don’t rest for too long, you lazy jerk! I expect to see you again at my house this evening for dinner, and if you don’t come, then I’ll kick you out!”

Rather than be annoyed at these harsh words, France merely looked amused. He reached over and ruffled Arthur’s hair, causing him to duck away and yelp in protest.

“Oui, oui, I will come for dinner so you won’t be lonely, little boy.”

“That’s not why at all! It’s proper procedure and you need to be polite, you’re a guest in my land!”

“And I am a guest, so perhaps you should be polite to me.”

“You be polite first! Frog! So hurry up and go inside, and don’t be late! Seven o clock on the dot!”

“Seven o’ clock.”

France ruffled his hair again, then stepped inside. Angrily, Arthur pawed it back into place and trotted back down the way to his house. Why did he have to do and pat his head like that? Like he was a child. Not only that, but being treated as an inferior infuriated him. He was equal to France, or better! Definitely better! France should look upon him with awe, he was sure. He headed back inside, trying not to think about France looking upon him with that awe, and reaching out to touch him reverently. Reverently… His face heated and he slammed the door to his house when he reached it.

\- - - - - - - -

Francis showed up at exactly 6:59, knocking on the door of Arthur’s house. The younger nation scrambled to open the door, giving France a haughty look as soon as they locked gazes.

“Since you’re on time, I won’t poison your food.”

“Oh! You mean you let someone else cook?”

He worked through that insult for a moment before turning red in the face and kicking France in the shin. France yelped a quiet “merde,” but still smirked a little as he stepped inside.

 

Dinner was full of bickering, but both of them clearly enjoyed it, as it was light banter, not meant to truly offend. France looked better-rested, Arthur noticed, although the former never made any indication that he had been tired in the first place. Finally, once that was over, Arthur ordered France to stay at the table, then jumped off of his seat and hurried away. France watched in amusement at this, setting his chin on one hand. Shortly, Arthur returned, a smug expression on his face as he dropped a chess set onto the table.

“I’ve been practicing!” he announced, starting to organize the pieces. “I go first.”

“Who says you get to go first, Angleterre? We should base it on chance.”

“No! You went first last time, so this time I go first!”

“Oui, oui, have it your way, then.”

Arthur puffed out his chest with pride as he placed all of his pieces, eager for this match. He had yet to win except once, in a lucky move, but he was sure he’d win this time. He really had been practicing. _I can’t wait to see the look on his face… He’ll definitely respect me now! He’ll say ‘oh, England! You’re so much smarter than me! How do you do it?’ And then I’ll laugh and…_ he snapped out of that train of thought because the look he imagined France gave him made him blush. Had to focus on the game. He began with a simple move, plucking up a pawn and moving it forward two spaces. France responded in kind, and a brutal match began.

England continued to smirk as they played, aggressively going after France’s pieces with a brutal assault force. Within a half hour, he had captured half of France’s pawns and one bishop. He continuously laughed to himself about France’s defensive strategy, pushing forward more and more. It was like his rival wasn’t even trying! Or perhaps Arthur really had gotten a lot smarter.

“Another pawn gone, frog. What will you do now?”

“Oh, dear, another one? Goodness me, I hadn’t even noticed.”

That made Arthur narrow his eyes, trying to understand the breezy look France had.

“Are you underestimating me, you bastard? I’ll have you know, I won’t take pity on you! When you lose, I’m going to laugh in your stupid face!”

“Will you now? I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

“That’s right! You’d better be honored that I’ll take the time to laugh at you!”

“Oui, oui. Honored, of course, Angleterre. Let’s see that happen, hm?”

Five moves later, Arthur watched with bugged eyes as France snatched his pearly white queen from the board. How did…? But when…? He banged a hand on the table, standing up.

“That wasn’t a fair move! Go back, you asshole! I wanna make a different move!”

“There are no take-backs in chess!” France scoffed, setting the queen down next to a few pawns and both rook. “You let your guard down. I’ll have you know, I won’t take pity on you, dear Angleterre.”

“Don’t… don’t use my own words back at me! How dare you?”

His face flushed with heat as he sat back down, starting to panic for the first time all game. Losing his queen could be the beginning of the end… How could he…? There still had to be a way! Angrily, he slammed a bishop down, viciously going after the King now. He chased it around the board, growing increasingly tense, struggling not to lose his temper again as he lost three more pawns and a knight. Finally, after over an hour of playing, France set down his Queen with an air of finality, trapping the white king in a corner. With a faint smirk on his face, he declared checkmate.

Arthur stared at the board, counting each spot the king could move to and crossing out the impossible ones. That… that couldn’t be. There really was nowhere he could go, and no lesser piece to defend with. He had lost. He felt his face heat, and swallowed thickly, not looking up at his rival.

“R-rematch… I want a rematch right now.”

“We can if you want, but I will beat you again, you know.”

“Shut up!”

He slammed his hands on the table, a sick feeling rising up within him. This wasn’t what he wanted at all. And that smirk, that stupid smirk, it made him feel like such a child.

“I said a rematch! NOW!”

“Do not yell, Angleterre, it is not polite. Sit down.”

“Don’t treat me like a child! I said I want a rematch, you set up your fucking pieces right now!”

“Language, England!”

“I said don’t treat me like a child! You’re not my mom and I’m centuries old!”

“England, calm _down_. This is why you cannot win!”

“Bullshit, I’ll beat you this time!”

“You will not! You will play too aggressively again, and walk yourself right into my trap as you always do! Do you know nothing of strategy besides simply going at what you want? A straightforward approach will not win in a war!”

“This isn’t war, this is chess!”

“Chess is a simulation of war, you idiote! One must take careful account of every piece on the board, every possible move, and decide at each turn what can be sacrificed and what cannot. There must always be a defensive barrier for the King, for he is the most vulnerable. Do we send our kings out on the battlefield? Non! We keep them in our castles and fight with armies! We work to corner our opponents, not just barge in! Have you learned nothing of war in all these years? You cannot win if you continue to make such stupid moves! You cannot win if you let your Queen go without proper protection and caution! You cannot make so many mistakes and expect a wild goose chase for my King will win! You never took the other pieces into account, and you should’ve seen my checkmate coming several moves ahead and acted upon it, but you did not! You will not win!”

Arthur stared at him after this outburst, mouth opening and closing without a sound coming out. France no longer looked smug. He looked annoyed. Like he had been bitten by some dirty rat and had to go tend to the inconvenience. Arthur was used to that look, but… today it stung him badly. France would never look upon him with awe at all, would he? Because France was 17 and he was 14, France had a deep voice and the mind of a strategist, while Arthur’s voice cracked and he still had the mindset of a child. The Queen had been right to bring him out here. He was not just a child in body, and France would always be ahead of him. Always. Without saying another word, he slipped off the chair and spun around, cloak billowing as he hurried away. He heard France call out to him as he departed, but didn’t even miss a step. Upon reaching his room and slamming the door, he felt hot tears begin to pour out. A child. He was still just a child. And France would always see him as one. His chest ached as he quietly sobbed to himself.

\- - - - - - - -

The next few days were not as violently emotional. Both of them bickered and teased and had friendly competitions, and France thankfully did not burst out with a monologue detailing his stupidity a second time. Arthur was able to relax because of that, and enjoy the week. That Friday night, it was meant to be the second to last night France would be there. They had agreed to have dinner at his place that night. Arthur was in the process of picking which cloak to wear when the door slammed open.

“I told you, William, I’ll come get you when I’m ready! Besides, I still have ten minutes before-“

Someone slapped a hand over his mouth, causing him to drop the cloak he’d been holding.

“You’re not going anywhere, filthy witch.”

“W-wh…!”

He bit down on the hand, causing his captor to scream, and then dashed towards the door, dropping his cloak. Just as he reached the doorway, two more men arrived from the other side and he ran straight into them. They caught his arms and began to wrench them back behind him, as he screamed.

“Let me go! William! Guards, help!”

He remembered then that William had gone off to the market an hour ago, and might not even be back yet. As for the guards, they didn’t come. His wrists were tied together with rope, and the three men began to draw him outside, despite his kicking and screaming.

“Let go of me! You don’t know what you’re doing! You have no idea who I am!”

“We know you’re a witch that doesn’t age, little brat. But all witches burn.”

“I’m not a witch! Stop this, let me go!”

No matter how much he screamed, they didn’t untie him. Soon, there were not just three men, but a crowd, pushing and prodding him along, making him stumble. It must’ve been the whole village. Before he could try to make a break for it, he was shoved down into the mud and his ankles were tied as well. The leaders of the mob, the three men who took him, began to pile up logs and straw, while he could do nothing but watch and pray.

\- - - - - - - -

England was meant to appear at Francis’s house at seven-thirty, and it was now eight o clock with no sign of him. Francis had been watching the street from a window for the last half hour, a small frown on his face. _Angleterre is never late…_ It wasn’t usually in his nature to worry about England, because he knew that child could take care of himself and curse a million times while doing so. But after a half hour, he was seriously worried. Despite the fact that if he was wrong and England would yell at him if he arrived to find an empty house, he put on his shoes and headed out towards the town. Upon reaching England’s house, he knocked several times and received no reply. But he hadn’t been on the road between them, either, so where could he be? Feeling a cold lump settle in his stomach, he began to head closer to the center of the town.

He saw the flickering orange and smelled the smoke before he reached the scene. What he found there made him freeze, eyes wide in horror. England was screaming. His shrill voice rang out above the crackling of the fire, one of absolute agony. Francis could not see him amidst the flames, only his outline. His form was distorted, both due to the ropes tying him tightly to the stake, and the damage already done. The fire must’ve started around five minutes ago. He was burning. He was burning and screaming and Francis could do nothing. And suddenly, the intense face of a long-dead girl crashed through him. He had not seen her die, but he had pictured it many times. How she shrieked, how long it took her body to start crumbling into a skeleton covered in ash. How they had burned her twice, England bragged, and then threw her into the Seine. Joan. Dear, dear Joan, his beloved Maid. La Pucelle d’Orléans,

And suddenly he was shrieking too, crumbling to the ground as the burning continued. The villagers gave him dark looks, and one even took a step forward as if to throw him in the fire as well, but in the end no one approached. Not that he noticed. He screamed and screamed, collapsed on the ground with his hands clutching both sides of his head.

“Pas plus, pas plus! Ârret cette folie! S’il vous plaît, ârret! Pas de plus! Pour l’amour de Dieu, pas plus!”

“Please! Let me go! Someone help me, God, just help it hurts it hurts make it stop!”

“Ârret! Aidez-les! Dieu, s’il vous plait, aidez-les! Arthur! Joan! S’il vous plait… S’il vous plait, Dieu…”

“It hurts it hurts it hurts…! God, help me. God, please, help me it hurts!”

Francis fell into incoherent sobbing pressing his face into the dirt as the screams went on. He tasted mud and tears and the heat from the fire prickled on his skin, but he could do nothing except remain there in a ball, whimpering “ârret” over and over again.

It took over another hour for the screaming to stop. England’s voice pleading for God to help him had long since become hoarse, until finally it tapered away, leaving just the sound of the crackling. The villagers took it as a sign of his death, and began to disperse without putting out the fire. It was blocked in by a ring of thick rocks, and would die down by morning, when they would gather the ashes and throw them away. There was only Francis left there, long since out of tears but still breathing in shallow, quick breaths. He could not approach. He could not touch the fire, even though he knew England was still alive, either unconscious or simply unable to scream anymore. But finally, he could stand the suffering no longer. He struggled to his feet and staggered around trying to find a bucket to put out the fire. It terrified him to be even near it, because of Joan, but he did it nonetheless. After several trips back to the well, the flames finally began to suffocate and die down. Once there was nothing left but ashes, burnt wood, and smoke, he shakily began to approach. England was limp in his bindings, head down. His hair was burned off, as were his clothes, leaving him slumped covered in so much red and black that Francis could hardly recognize him as England. A 14 year old boy, in appearance and often in mind. A child. Tortured violently by his own people for over an hour, with no God to save him. Francis felt his stomach heave and just barely stopped himself from vomiting. Swallowing thickly as acid burned back down his throat, he pulled away what remained of the ropes. England’s body sagged as each rope was pulled away, until he was in a heap on the floor. Carefully, Francis rolled him over to get a good look at his face. Parts of the flesh had burned away completely, leaving blackened skeleton and sizzling blood in its place. For the moment, his eyes were closed, apparently long unconscious. The sight of him really did make Francis vomit, although he took care to lean away and not let any land on the victimized nation. Once he had shakily wiped his mouth, he poured another bucketful of cold water along the boy, hoping to cool him enough to be carried. Then, with extreme care, he placed one hand under England’s back and one under his knees, hoisting him up and letting his rival’s head loll onto his chest for support. He picked his way back out of the burnt wood, and carried him back to the house.

Upon reaching the house, he collapsed against the door, feeling like he was about to cry but too dehydrated to do so. Before he could stand up again and urge the servants to help him, he heard a faint sound. Instinctively, he looked down. England did not move, per se, but his body was now trembling.

“I’ ‘ur… I’ ‘ur… ea…”

“Oh, _Arthur_.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart breaking. England was in so much pain. No human would be alive right now, he was experiencing something impossible for a mortal being. He wanted to at least stop the pitiful begging, what he presumed to be continued repetition of “it hurts, it hurts,” but he feared that going anywhere near England’s face would be more detrimental than anything. He took a shaky breath and stood again, kicking the door with one foot repeatedly until someone opened it. England’s main servant, William, turned as white as a sheet and stumbled back before hurrying off. After an appropriate amount of time to throw up, he returned, holding out his hands shakily. Francis did not give him up, knowing there was no first aid or treatment that could help in this stage.

“We must leave before they realize,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. After a moment of indecision, William nodded and swept back inside to gather everything necessary for a trip back to the capital. Sometime among all of this, England went still again, and Francis thanked God for the release of pain. Hopefully, he would remain unconscious for a while.

\- - - - - - - -

It took two days to return to the capital, and by that point England’s lips had returned and fuzz was growing on his head, but the damage was still horribly severe. He was only awake for a little while at a time, and clarity during these moments was not something Francis was sure about. Mostly what he did while awake was whimper about the pain and tremble in Francis’s arms (for the older nation had not let him go since that night, except to go into a bush now and then and pee, or to eat). But finally, the carriage stopped for good. Francis carried his fallen comrade inside the castle, walking as quickly as he dared. He approached the throne room rapidly, and the guards shifted from side to side, obviously confused and unsure, before barring the way.

“Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth is speaking with her court.”

“Send them away, immediately!”

After a moment’s pause, one cracked open the door and went inside. There was some hushed talking, and then the door was flung open. Gasps came from the members of the court, who were leaving through the other door, but Francis ignored them. He walked straight up to the Queen and held England out, his eyes ice. However, he did not shout, though he could think of a few choice words. Rather, he kept his voice low.

“They realized he did not age, and thought him a witch.”

The Queen, to her credit, did not look away or get a disgusted expression, but her face had paled to a sheet at glimpsing her country, and that did not fade. There was a moment of silence before her fingers twitched and she looked to a guard.

“Bring him to his chambers.”

Her voice was commanding, if slightly shaky, and the guard hastened to obey. Francis handed over the burned body, though a flutter of fear rose in his stomach when he was no longer in contact with the boy. He did not leave yet, still too close to the Queen’s throne for a formal audience.

“I would suggest, Your Majesty, that Arthur not be sent away without some guards. Witch hunts are plenty these days, as you know, and anyone can notice the presence of a nation at any time. Especially at his age, when change should be rapid. “

The words were not openly harsh, but his tone was cold and the implication was bold. Obviously, she realized his words placed the blame on her, but years of royalty training kept her expression neutral.

“My country shall not be leaving for the foreseeable future.”

“Good. I will stay in a room beside his.”

“Preparations will be made.”

She waved a hand, dismissing him. Feeling like he had several more things he could say to her, Francis exited the throne room.

\- - - - - - - -

It was agony. Arthur had received wounds in battle before, and even a few burns here and there from various situations, but this might have been the first time he experienced something truly deadly. He had been pleading with God internally ever since he’d been caught, but no amount of pleading was enough, or perhaps God wanted him to suffer. Still, he retained some sort of hope, as the flames began licking at his feet, that God or France would help him. By the time his fellow nation had arrived, he was in sheer agony, no longer aware of what he was screaming or who was there or anything except the heat and the pain. Eventually, he sank into blessed numbness.

The next time he was truly aware, aside from brief flickers of consciousness with nothing but more pain, he was no longer seeing orange everywhere he looked. Rather, as his eyes cracked open and focused, he noticed he was indoors. Further examination of the walls and ceiling told him that this was, in fact, his room in the castle. He took this in without moving, afraid that any sort of twitch would bring back the agony again. As it were, he still hurt, badly, but it was not as bad as before. Before he could make any observations, there was a shifting sound nearby, and a face popped into view. It took a moment, but he recognized France, looking somewhat tired.

“England, are you awake? Can you hear me?”

He hesitated to try speaking, fearful of more pain. His mouth felt just as awful as the rest of him. Instead, he forced his head to move up and down in a nod.

“I brought you back to the capital. Do you remember what happened?”

He nodded again.

“Desolé, England. I am sorry, I… I could not get you down until they left.”

Suddenly, a flush of painful heat coursed through his face. Before he could even attempt to speak, he was crying, quiet little gasps escaping as he did so. The tears burned his damaged face, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was just so terrible. _God, why would you make me go through that? Why didn’t you stop them? Why? Do you hate me?_ As he continued to cry quietly, he saw France’s face crumple. A cool hand touched his cheek briefly, but was then pulled away.

“Shh, England, it is okay. You’re safe now. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I wanted to… I… If I tried to get you down they would have burned me too.”

“F-France… I…”

He couldn’t form any more words, either from pain or upset he wasn’t sure. He merely broke into sobs instead of finishing his sentence.

“Shhh. It’s all right. Shhh, Arthur.”

Eventually, the tears stopped. England closed his eyes again, swallowing thickly.

“Does it hurt?”

“Y-yes… It hurts…”

“I will send for your nurse.”

The hand touched his cheek again, and then France left his side. He was not prone to displays of neediness, but he felt ready to cry again as he was left alone.

\- - - - - - - -

The next few days passed in an opium-induced haze. He was aware, now and then, of someone guiding him to a bathtub and carefully washing him, but luckily he had been drugged enough that the pain was practically nonexistent. He floated rather happily, but it couldn’t last forever. Gradually, the pain he felt between doses lessened, until he looked down at himself in his bed and realized all of the black and red was gone, replaced with leathery white. He was healing. When he moved, the skin crackled but did not hurt as much. Before it was time for his nurse to check up on him, he slowly sat up on the bed, then stood. For a moment, he swayed, but caught himself and then shuffled forward.

He found France immediately, opening the door to the room next to his. France paused, closing his door again.

“England. Should you be up?”

“You’re still here.”

The older nation frowned, obviously displeased that his question hadn’t been answered, nonetheless, he stepped forward and took Arthur’s wrist.

“Come, get back to bed. I wanted to make sure you healed properly, so I stayed for a while.”

“How long has it been?”

“A week since we returned. How do you feel, England?”

“Better.”

He allowed himself to be nudged back onto the bed, but caught France’s wrist before the boy could leave again.

“Why’d you even help me? We’re enemies.”

“What do you take me for, England? I am not heartless or cruel. No one deserves to go through that.”

The words struck a chord within Arthur. No one deserves to go through that. While he worked through that phrase, he noticed France still clutching a rosary. Was it Sunday? Had he just come back from praying? It hit him then, what had been nagging at him.

“France… I…”

“Yes?”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“Angleterre, this is not the first time citizens have suspected their nations, it is not-“

“Not about that! I’m sorry that I… that… No one deserves to feel that pain, and… I… I didn’t realize. I didn’t know it was like that. For _her_ , I….”

He trailed off, unable to speak her name. Though he hadn’t been aware of France’s screaming while he burned, he realized then that surely France thought of it. Of her. His suspicions were correct, because France immediately tensed, his sympathetic gaze hardening and flickering away.

“That is not… You need rest. I should go.”

“France, but, I-“

“No. I should go.”

“France! Please, I’m trying to-“

“No!”

France stood up and backed away, before spinning to hurry out of the room. The door slammed shut with an air of finality. Arthur felt a lump in his throat, lowering his gaze back to his white, leathery skin. _Did you really expect him to forgive you just like that?_ Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d just wanted to apologize anyway. The sudden knowledge that France loved her, and he, Arthur, had burned her like that, made him feel sick. To love a human was ridiculous, but France did it, and this was the result.

\- - - - - - - -

Three days later, Arthur’s skin was only faintly red, the last of the burns dying out. Though he personally thought the red marks were hideous, he was no longer such a scandalous sight as to be free of responsibility. He donned his best clothes with the help of some servants, occasionally hissing as the remaining burns still stung somewhat, and departed his room. After a long walk, he reached the Queen’s chambers. His presence was announced, and he stepped inside. Once there, he bowed to her briefly, lowering his gaze.

“Your Majesty. I have been away from your court for far too long, I think.”

“Arthur.”

Rather than regard him with formality, she stood from her chair and approached, spreading her arms. For a brief, confusing moment, he thought she was going to hug him, but at the last moment her arms simply landed on his shoulders, shorter than hers.

“You’ve healed so well, I don’t think I’d believe it if I hadn’t seen for myself.”

“Nations are like that, my Queen.”

“Hm. And yet, you felt all the pain of a human. I cannot decide if your fate is lucky or unlucky. Nonetheless, Arthur, there will be no more trips to small villages for you. I’d rather have you here, safe.”

Was that truly compassion? He gazed at her, remaining silent as he worked through that. After being sent away, he had assumed she thought him but a child, but…

“I am honored to remain by your side.”

“As I am honored to be your Queen. Come, the court awaits.”

She let go of his shoulders and briefly touched a hand to his cheek, then swept out of the room. Blinking slowly, he followed.

\- - - - - - - -

Elizabeth’s funeral was on a Monday, just like her death was. Arthur carried one of the flags of her ancestors as the procession trooped along to Westminster Abbey. It felt light compared to the crushing weight of grief. As her coffin was slowly lowered, her face chiseled in the stone on top, a sob rose through his throat and he had to choke it back. She had been known by all as “Good Queen Bess,” but he preferred his own nickname Lizzie, whispered in hushed tones decades ago, when their love first blossomed. He was perhaps a year older in appearance, with puberty giving him pleasing gifts, and while that time had actually been around 44 years, he felt as if he had only gotten that one precious year. At age 69, she died too soon, somehow.

He did not cry at her funeral. But he did cry afterwards, once everyone had dispersed and he was off in some hidden corner. He had assumed, in his distraught state, that no one would think he hadn’t already left, and thus was shocked when a hand touched his shaking shoulder. He spun around, tears still spilling though he hastily tried to wipe them now. The face he met was young, like his, but with all the graveness of an old man.

“France. So you did come.”

Sending an invitation to France had been something he debated for a while, but in the end, he had to do it, for political reasons as well as selfish ones.

“Oui.”

France’s voice was soft. He kept a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, falling silent, and Arthur struggled to contain himself now that he had company.

“I’m glad you came, but please. I came over here to be alone for a moment.”

“You loved her.”

“France, not n-”

“You did. I saw it. I saw it perhaps before you did, even. Your first human love, how did it feel?”

He ceased his attempts to drive France off, looking down at the floor. After a very undignified sniffle, he nodded.

“I did, and I always will. And it was… It was….”

He searched for the appropriate words. How to define a love like this? Wonderful? Terrible? Somewhere in between? Before he could pick one word, France nodded.

“It is always like that.”

“How do you do it? How do you… Go on?”

France sighed, letting go of Arthur and offering a faint smile. But there was a deep sadness in his eyes, one that spoke volumes about France’s age and love life.

“It is not something I can describe to you with words. It is… Complicated. But it is possible. Wounds heal in time, although wounds of the heart take far longer than wounds of the flesh.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better at all, you sap…”

He wiped at his eyes again, sighing quietly.

“I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“Why you loved Joan.”

France stiffened, but before he could attempt to leave, Arthur went on.

“Perhaps they were similar, in the light they brought. She brought you hope, and Lizzie brought me… happiness.”

“England…”

There was warning in that tone, but he went on anyway.

“I thought it was stupid. To love a human, that is. I thought, why even put yourself in that position?”

“We were not truly lovers.”

“But that didn’t stop you from having those feelings. And I thought you a fool. But now I see… there’s no way to stop it. Some humans are impossible not to love.”

“That… is true.”

“You didn’t let me say it last time. I’m sorry, Francis.”

He had felt the pain of both parties now. He had felt the physical pain of being burned at the stake, and the emotional pain of a broken heart. He could honestly say, now, that were he in the same situation now, he wouldn’t have done it. He couldn’t. And he truly did mean the apology. France remained stiff, his lips pressed together as he stared at the floor. For a moment, Arthur thought he might shout, or walk away without another word. But finally, he heard very quiet words.

“And I am sorry for you, Arthur.”

With that, France turned and walked slowly away. Arthur watched him go, more tears for his fallen love already spilling now that he was alone again. Perhaps that was the closest he’d ever get to being forgiven.

**Author's Note:**

> *translations:
> 
> "No more, no more! Stop this madness! Please, stop! No more! For the love of God, no more! "
> 
> then:
> 
> "Stop! Help them! God, please, help them! Arthur! Joan! Please … Please, God … "


End file.
